


Northward

by dazzler



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: M/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-04-19 17:45:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14242524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dazzler/pseuds/dazzler
Summary: Of all the damned boats in the thrice-damned sea to stop, it had to be the one with an Ishgardian on it. An Ishgardian whoknew who he was.





	1. Dead Men Tell No Tales

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this for NaNo. It's not finished so this is kind of risky, but I thought posting might motivate me to pick it up and do something with it? I've been pretty busy lately so we'll see. orz

 

Artoirel was in his cabin when the bowsprit of the  _ Misery  _ speared through the side of his ship with a sickening crack. The massive galley towered above the waves, yet it came out of the morning mist as silent as death, its wrought iron arms reaching to catch the  _ Quicksilver  _ in a deadly embrace.

He rushed out onto the deck amidst shouting and confusion. His navigator, an Elezen woman of fifty summers called Lisellette, caught him by the arm. 

“Pirates, milord,” she said. “We’re being boarded.”

“What should we do?” he asked, panic rising in his throat, threatening to choke him. He’d gone over it countless times with his crew, trying to assuage their fears-- pirate activity had died down since the end of the blockade, they only took from Garlean ships… empty words, now. 

She drew the dagger at her hip. “Fight like hells, and pray to the Fury that they let us leave with our lives.”

Artoirel dove into the chaos. A Midlander man had one of the sailors cornered on the quarterdeck, and Artoirel lunged, sword out, just as the man turned and shoved his axe between them. Artoirel’s blade clanged off the head uselessly, the force of it making his arm shake and his head ring. The man hefted his axe and took a step forward, and Artoirel saw the sailor behind him make a quick escape. He breathed a sigh of relief even as his opponent took another swing at him. 

Artoirel found his footing and dodged the blow, knocking the man in the side with the pommel as he stepped out of the way. The man cursed, whirling on him, and Artoirel was about to strike back when the entire boat rocked beneath them, accompanied by the horrible shriek of wood snapping under metal. His opponent grabbed the mainmast and held on, but Artoirel went sprawling, arms flailing out, trying to find purchase on the heaving deck. 

When the ship righted, Artoirel found a knee in his back and a knife at his throat. The last thing he saw before being dragged away was an elegant figure, Elezen in shape, cutting through his crew like a blade through water. Though they carried an axe like the rest of his crew, they did so with a sort of grace that put Artoirel in mind of a knight more than a pirate. 

The encounter lasted no more than a bell. The ship was capable of sailing thanks to the instruction of the older sailors aboard, but none of the battle-ready members had any experience fighting at sea and were quickly overwhelmed by the axe-wielding brutes. Perhaps if they had been dragons it would have been a fairer fight.  None of this was fair. He had failed his father again, and now he was going to die a thousand malms from home.

Artoirel was separated from his knights and taken to the deck of the  _ Misery  _ in ropes, where he was dragged before the Elezen man he’d seen earlier. 

“Cap’n,” his Roegadyn captor said, “I don’t think this is a Garlean ship. This one appears to be the head of the expedition.” 

The man’s cold blue eyes swept over him and Artoirel felt them on his skin like the winter wind. “Damn this fog. We can see if they have anything worth nabbing and then turn them loose.” 

“How dare you,” said Artoirel. “We are carrying supplies to aid in the Doman rebuilding effort. You would take from helpless refugees?”

“Mouthy, aren’t you?” said the man. He spoke with a drawl that Artoirel could not quite place. Lominsan, perhaps, but something polished and familiar lurked beneath. 

“Filthy pirate,” said Artoirel, his hands curling into fists. “Release me, or-- or else.”

“A lord’s son,” the captain said. “I can tell by that frilly fur coat you wear. As useless as you are beloved, spending your parents’ fortune on wine and pleasure.”

“You’re wrong. I have always put my house first in everything I do.”

“Even worse,” he sneered. “What, do you fancy yourself a knight? Too proud to beg for your crew?”

Artoirel gritted his teeth and said nothing. The man was right, and it fair sickened him that his first thought was not for the safety of his knights but the pride of his house. His scraped knees began to ache where he knelt on the deck, his shoulders straining from his arms being pulled back. The captain prodded him on the leg with a scuffed brown boot. 

“Is this your father’s ship? Awfully nice one, considering you people haven’t left your frozen rock in decades.”

“Take my life in exchange for theirs,” said Artoirel, “for if you let me live, I will surely hunt you down for what you’ve done.”

The captain gave him what was almost a pitying look. “Well, I deal in spices, not murdering little lordlings playing at charity,” he said. “Suppose we drop you off and be done with you. Mordyn, make ready.” 

“Aye, Cap’n Carvallain.” 

“Carvallain? I remember the man.” 

The crew stopped what they were doing. All turned to look at Artoirel, save the captain, who stopped walking but kept his back to him. 

And oh, Artoirel knew he should not have opened his mouth. But the Fortemps men were never known for their self-preservation.

“He retired to Western Coerthas for the shame of losing the Durendaire heir at sea.” 

The man turned, his cold blue eyes narrowing.

“Incredible,” Artoirel said under his breath. “The very spit and image of your brother.” 

Carvallain-- nay, Tristan de Durendaire’s lip pulled back in an ugly snarl. “Release the others back to their ship,” he said. “Put this one in the brig.” 

 

\--

Of all the damned boats in the thrice-damned sea to stop, it had to be the one with an Ishgardian on it. An Ishgardian who _ knew who he was _ . 

Carvallain paced his quarters, fuming. 

“Captain,” said Swyrfryn nervously. “You can’t mean to keep him down there forever. And killin’ him seems more of a trouble than anything.”

Admittedly, he had panicked and handled the situation poorly, but there must still be a way to fix it that did not involve dropping the Fortemps son to the bottom of the Indigo Deep, as much as he’d like to. He was a strategist, for Navigator’s sake. The lapse in judgement was concerning.

Artoirel did not strike him as the type to be susceptible to threat or bribe, which was irritating, but surely there was something he needed that Carvallain could give him in exchange for his silence. If not money, then perhaps the might of the Kraken’s Arms or further aid to the people of Doma. 

“I just need to,” said Carvallain, scrubbing a hand over his face, “speak with him, or-- or something. We’ll release him when we hit land. What colors did you say they were under?”

“A-- a black and red unicorn, Cap’n.”

“The Fortemps brat. Sweet Navigator, I kidnapped Edmont de Fortemps’ firstborn son.” Carvallain groaned and sank into his chair. 

Swyrfryn scratched his beard thoughtfully. “I don’t know who that is, exactly, but I know you’d never let personal business get in the way of, well, business, so I trust your judgement on the matter.”

“Thank you, Swyrfryn. I will take my leave to see him, then.”

He decided to discuss it with Artoirel over dinner. Carvallain usually took his meals by himself in his quarters, but perhaps some good food might gain him favor with his prisoner. He ordered the cook to steam some fish and make it as bland as possible, like how most Coerthans enjoyed their supper. 

Carvallain descended belowdecks to where the man was being kept. There were no other prisoners, just the lord in his fur coat sitting in his cell, looking more cross than anything. He was broad of shoulder and chest, built like a soldier, and he would have been handsome but for his thin-lipped expression and dour brow. When Carvallain approached, he stood, gripping the bars of his cell with enough force to whiten his knuckles.

In the course of dealing with prisoners, Carvallain went in expected threats, bargaining, blackmail. He did not expect the first thing out of the man’s mouth to be, “What happened to you?”

Carvallain spread his hands. “I was abducted by pirates. They made me their captain.”

“But you did not try to return.”

“You’re the Fortemps son, yes?” Carvallain said. Someone with as much blind devotion to his house as this poor fool could never understand why Carvallain had to leave. 

His prisoner straightened up. “Artoirel de Fortemps. Have your forgotten?”

“Last I saw you, you were no more than a boy,” said Carvallain. “Hiding in your mother’s skirts. Cor, and Lady Abrielle was the terror of the Pillars.”  Carvallain’s memories of life before the Kraken’s Arms were at times hazy and blurred, but Lady Abrielle de Fortemps stood out, sharp and imposing in his mind. She was, by his estimation, one of the worst of them, and that included his own father. 

“I’d ask you to not speak of my mother in such tones,” said Artoirel with a sniff. He looked affronted, scowling in the dim lantern light. Or mayhap that was just his face.  “I’m surprised you even remember me.”

“Of course I do. We were playmates at more than one party, sneaking around the gardens and hiding from the nursemaids. Our houses were always close.”

“No longer,” said Artoirel. “Do you know what losing you did to your father? Lord Charlemend despises the foreigners who stole his son from him, I daresay the very pirates you joined, and he grew distrustful of outsiders. You know my father has always held a more liberal view of such matters.”

“I neither know nor care for the politics of Ishgard,” Carvallain said. “How could I? I was but a child when I left.” 

The resulting tense silence was broken by the arrival of his assistant with dinner.  Artoirel watched stone-faced as Gerald wheeled in the cart. Maybe he was seasick. He was already fairly pale. Carvallain resolved to let him have some fresh air later. He did not think himself cruel, and the sight of the man in his bedraggled coat stirred a sense of pity in him. 

No, cruel was the nobles that would let their city’s people die in the street without giving them a fair shake. Nobles like Artoirel and his father. But they’d help the Domans, hypocrites that they were. 

He noticed Gerald scowling at Artoirel. 

“You know him?” Carvallain asked, jerking his head toward him. 

“Watched him fall on his arse when we took his ship,” said Gerald. “So, aye. I know him.”

Carvallain laughed and shooed him out. More than a little sullen, Artoirel stared at the meal Gerald had left for them. 

“We make land at Radz-at-Han in three days,” said Carvallain. He picked up the plate and sniffed it. There was hardly any spice at all. He tried a forkful of fish, wrinkling his nose. How Coerthans lived with this sort of thing was unfathomable. Pity his ships never passed near there.  “I am considering dropping you at the port, with the assurance that if you breathe a word about my life with the Arms, you will live to regret it. Do you understand?” 

Artoirel glared at him, but he nodded.  Carvallain took a bite of boiled popoto, chewing slowly. “It seems only fair that I offer you something in exchange for keeping my secret. So I will return to you the value of the goods I took from your ship. We can pretend this never happened.” 

“I have a request,” Artoirel said. 

Carvallain waved his hand. “Yes, yes, go ahead.”

“If you have any mercy in your heart, you must allow me to write my father as soon as possible and inform him that I am alive,” said Artoirel. “The shock of losing another son might be the end of him.”

Carvallain paused, his fork halfway to his mouth. “Another?” 

“My half-brother Haurchefant was killed a year ago.”

The name stirred some faint recognition in him. “I remember him, barely. Always running around with the Haillenarte boys.”

“Chlodebaimt perished at the battle of Steel Vigil,” said Artoirel. 

“Mm.” Carvallain made a vague noise of acknowledgement. “I will allow you to tell him you are alive and on your way home. But I shall be inspecting the letter.”

“I only want him to know I yet live,” said Artoirel. “I am a man of my word.”

“That,” Carvallain said as he got to his feet, “I do not doubt.”


	2. Misery Loves Company

Following his dinner with Carvallain, Artoirel was now escorted to the upper decks every few bells for the fresh air. It was a relief to see the sky and stretch his legs, even though he had no idea where they were, with nothing but sea in every direction and little sense for the temperature beyond ‘too warm for his comfort.’ His guards did not speak to him, and neither was he inclined to make conversation.

By the end of the second day, he noticed something strange-- every time Artoirel went topside, Carvallain would vanish, sparing him only a glance from the quarterdeck before disappearing behind a door. Artoirel could only guess himself to be an unpleasant reminder of the man’s past, and though he quietly relished the thought of making Carvallain feel guilty, he also supposed it was a rather large ship and the captain of it probably a busy man.

He was surprised, then, when on the morning of the third day of his captivity Carvallain arrived in person to give him news of their making land. He’d traded his dark blue shirt for a light green one with an even deeper neckline, made of a fine fabric that Artoirel could only assume was Thavnairian silk. In lieu of a hat, he wore a colorful cloth wrap embroidered with gold. Artoirel had to admit the effect was striking.

“Sorry about the costume,” said Carvallain as he unlocked Artoirel’s cell. “We’re posing as traders here. Do try to look less like a prisoner.”

Artoirel just glared at him. He followed Carvallain up the stairs in sullen silence, but he could not stifle a noise of astonishment upon seeing the port city. Rosy sandstone buildings stood out against an impossibly blue sky,  and crowds bustled up and down the docks in colorful clothing. The cool breeze rolling in off the water carried the scents of salt and fish.

“She’s beautiful, aye?” Carvallain cast him a smug look over his shoulder. “And all the finest of Garlemald’s trading vessels come here to dock, so heavy with colonial riches they couldn’t outsail a barge.”

“You’re planning to steal from Garlean merchants?” Artoirel stared back at him in alarm. “They’re civilians, not soldiers.”

“Might as well be,” said Carvallain with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Running an empire isn’t all gunpowder and magitek. This side of the Bounty it’s about silk and spices, which Thavnair has in spades.”

He moved to the side of the ship and looked out to the city beyond, where, past the sounds of water and bird cries, Artoirel could hear vendors shouting.

“The only reason Radz-at-Han remains independent is so that the empire can access Thavnairian goods. The treaties heavily favor Garlemald. As long as they continue to produce, they can maintain the facade of independence.” Carvallain leaned back on the railing. “Hells, everyone knows the current government is made up of imperial toadies. Eventually the Garleans are going to decide it’s more efficient for them to send in the army. Those merchants? They’re clearing a path.”

Standing side by side, they were about eye level. The last time they’d seen one another, he’d been a boy of ten summers. Carvallain at fourteen was tall for his age, hitting his growth spurt early, and to Artoirel, the boy already seemed so strong and self-assured. A born knight.

“And what about you?” he asked.

“I’m just here to make a few gil,” said Carvallain, grinning, “and maybe mess with their plans while I’m at it.”

“You stole from innocent Domans.”

“Your charity comes at a price for them, or your people would not have bothered.” Carvallain said. “Don’t worry your pretty little head over it, lordling. Such vulgar matters are below the province of Ishgard’s high houses.”

“Cap’n.” Swyrfryn approached and gave Carvallain a respectful nod, ignoring Artoirel entirely. “Begging your pardon, but I think we’d best be rid of the lad before he attracts attention.”

“Ah, yes. Here.” Carvaillain fished through the satchel at his belt and produced a sack of coins. “Pray avoid seeking passage on any Garlean vessels. I’d hate to be responsible for delaying you any further.”

Artoirel accepted the bag, thinking with disgust on it being undoubtedly stolen as he tucked it away. Then he straightened up, squared his shoulders, and fixed Carvallain with a glare that would have made Lady Fortemps herself proud.

“You’re a thief and a coward. I have little regard for men such as you. But,” he said, his voice softening, “I will keep your secret, because as much as it pains me to deprive your family news of your survival, surely it would hurt them more to learn of your willful absence.”

Carvallain’s face remained indifferent. “Right. Off you go,” he said.

Artoirel turned and strode purposefully down the gangplank without once looking back.

 

\--

 

“He’s going to be robbed blind, carrying all that gil,” Swyrfryn remarked.

Carvallain watched as the hem of Artoirel’s fur coat disappeared into the bustling market street. “That, my dear fellow,” he said, “is not my problem.”

 

\--

 

Still squinting in the sunlight, Artoirel made his way through the maze of docks, stopping every few fulms to let sailors or workers pass. He had nearly reached the shore when a voice called out to him.

“Looking for someone?”

Limsan, by the accent. He turned. The woman was a Roegadyn, straight-backed and steely-eyed, probably around his father’s age. She wore a long, black coat despite the heat, and her dark red hair was tied in a tight knot at the back of her head. She looked almost impatient, standing with her arms crossed and her chin tipped up. 

“I seek passage to Doma,” said Artoirel. “If you know of any ships headed that way, I would be in your debt.”

The woman looked him over with an appraising eye. “What good fortune. We make for Kugane on the morrow.”

He bowed. “I am Lord Artoirel of House Fortemps.”

She smiled down at him and gestured at the ship anchored directly behind her. “Captain Rhotgeimwyn of the _Loyalty_ , at your service, my lord.”

It looked like a fine ship, larger than _Misery_ and painted black with red and gold detailing. He could see the crew loading crates onto it and preparing her for travel.

There came a noise like a sail unfurling in a storm. As he watched, a creature with massive wings and spiral horns descended to land atop the fore yard, and although Ishgard had made a great deal of progress since the war, the sight made Artoirel go cold. He’d heard once of an einhander ripping the mast from the deck of an airship and stabbing holes through the hull.

Captain Rhotgeimwyn grinned at his stricken expression. “Sohm Ehsk, my travelling companion. She won’t hurt you unless I ask.”

He swallowed down the lump of fear and unease in his throat, turning away from the beast. “Are you with the Limsan fleet, Captain?”

“The fleet?” She laughed, a harsh, sudden noise. “Oh, no. Old Merlwyb hasn’t taken me in yet.”

Merchants, then. Artoirel nodded.

"Do you have a place to stay for the night?" she asked.

"Not yet."

"There's an inn not far from the harbor," she said. "The Eyrie, off main street. They'll give you a clean bed and a decent meal."

“Thank you, Captain." He bowed again. "What do I owe you for the cost of travel?”

“A small sum should suffice,” she said, clasping her hands behind her back. “After all, one man is little trouble to a vessel such as mine.”

 


End file.
